Whatever you want, at any moment, someone else is getting it. Whatever you have, someone else is longing for.

Would-be novelists need to bring equal parts arrogance and ignorance to the task before them. The arrogance is almost self-explanatory. Walk into any bookstore or library, calculate how many lifetimes the average person would need to read all the fiction contained therein. To think that one has anything to contribute, to any genre or tradition, takes genuine hubris.

She might not be as strong as everyone she met, or as fast, or even as smart. But she could bullshit with the best of them. Combine that quality with a license to carry, and a girl could more than get by in this life.

stinginess seemed instinctive to him. Darwinian even. He hadn't gotten to his current size by sharing.

Whatever you want, at any moment, someone else is getting it. Whatever you have, someone else is longing for.

I like to see writers reach bigger and bigger audiences, and stand-alones have allowed some of them to do just that.

We become comfortable saying that there's nothing new, and then something like Malarky comes along, which is new and old and different and familiar, but ultimately itself, comfortable in its own skin, wise and smart and crazy-sexy or maybe sexy-crazy-well, you just have to read it to understand. It's a novel that sets its own course, sure and steady, even when it seems like it might be about to go over the edge of the world.